


Brass Buttons

by kingbooooo



Series: These Tardiest Explorers [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Cheeky James, Domestic Fluff, Dress Uniforms, Fancy Hats, Grouchy Francis, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Self-Harm, boots and braces and buttons, by banging it out a few times, just two moody sea captains working through their shared trauma, passing reference to The Dress, sharing a bed to stave off nightmares, they probably could have used a lot of therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 23:43:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19936480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingbooooo/pseuds/kingbooooo
Summary: Watching Commander James Fitzjames, pride of the Royal Navy, vomit into his rosebushes was not how Francis Crozier intended to spend his evening.  But here he was, standing outside his home, Fitzjames doubled over with the most ungodly noises emerging from him.Captain Crozier and Commander Fitzjames have recovered physically from their time in the Arctic, but both carry the mental and emotional scars, unable to unburden themselves until an intoxicated James shows up on Francis’ doorstep.  A bit of fun banter and domestic fluff mixed in with some serious discussion of trauma and poor coping mechanisms.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I put this thing up so quickly I forgot to add some notes. Whoops!
> 
> Chapter 2 has description of self-harm, FYI.
> 
> This is my first fix-it fic. I got done with my other Terrorfic and knew I wanted to write these characters more. It also ended up being a lot heavier than I originally intended, which seems to be happening to everything I've published. Maybe I need a cheerier fandom.
> 
> The original title for this was The Road Back Home Again, based on the Stan Rogers' song Northwest Passage (I see I'm not the only one with that idea!). Just do yourself a favor and give it a listen, and then listen to The Very Best of Stan Rogers, which has the highest boat to non-boat song ratio.
> 
> I banged this out (heh) in a pretty short time, so apologies if it's a little rough around the edges. Hope you enjoy it!
> 
> PS Shoutout to high school biology and those Punnett Squares for helping me remember dominant versus recessive genes.

Watching Commander James Fitzjames, pride of the Royal Navy, vomit into his rosebushes was not how Francis Crozier intended to spend his evening. But here he was, standing outside his home, Fitzjames doubled over with the most ungodly noises emerging from him.

“Better out than in,” James got out in between retches, Francis rolling his eyes even though James couldn’t see. Earlier that evening, Francis had been angry, but for a very different reason. James had failed to show for diner, again. Standing here, though, Francis granted himself a moment’s worth of reflection.

He didn’t have a lot of clear memories of the rescue. James had been ill, near death and unable to walk. Francis was only modestly better, with his legs still under him when Ross had found them, dead and dying men all around. Francis had spent the return trip below deck in a fugue state, another month convalescing before he could give his truncated report to the navy. He’d taken his pension, made some investments, bought this small house with the little garden hidden behind high walls, and withdrawn almost entirely from society. He wasn’t fit for it anyway, prone to bouts of melancholy, nightmares, and a bone-aching shame and guilt that he wrestled with daily. Every so often a reporter or writer came calling. Francis would reference the official report, smile, nod, and shut the door.

James had fared worse, it seemed. He’d had a longer recovery, still abed when Francis had been well enough to leave hospital, his face pale and drawn and pinched, the hollows of his cheeks veering past handsome to worrisome. He’d also given a few interviews, probably for money. _Or fame,_ Francis had thought uncharitably. He’d written to James, getting short responses, finally inviting him to dinner, James responding that he would be honored to see Francis again.

Francis had spared very little expense, even getting a good bottle of wine despite his abstinence. And then James, that flighty creature, hadn’t shown. He’d sent a letter the following week, explaining himself. Something had come up. He was very sorry, very sorry indeed, and he hoped that Francis would forgive him and please, would he think of him again in the future.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d invited James for dinner again. He did want to see him. He was worried about James. He was worried about everything. That was all.

Dinner. Wine. And no James. Francis sighed. Should he have been surprised? He’d sat there, chewing his meal slowly and moving it around his plate, his anger mounting as his food cooled, looking around the small dining room. This house, this home. He should have been content. Instead, it was turning into a well-furnished prison.

He pushed the plate away, preparing to retire for another sleepless night when there was a knock at the door, loud and erratic.

“Francis! Open the door!” The words were drawn-out and slurred. “Captain Crozier!”

James was on the doorstep, smiling, his eyes glassy.

“Here I am, Francis, only,” James looked at his pocket watch, holding it close before it slipped out of his fingers. “An hour late? Two?”

“Lovely to see you too, James,” Francis said dryly, noting silently that James’ clothes were a bit loose, the buttons on his jacket tarnished. One appeared to be missing. His breath reeked of something strong and cheap.

“Oh, don’t be sour. Aren’t you going to invite me in?” James was grinning. He hiccupped, and nearly in an instant, his face changed from jovial to sickly. He turned, thankfully, to the rosebushes before being noisily and violently ill into them. Francis folded his arms, his nose wrinkling in irritation. 

“Are you quite done?”

“Yes.” James coughed and spat. “No. Not quite.” There was another round of retching.

He looked up at James, that winning smile gone, his face a greenish hue.

“I should be going. S-sorry about the, ah,” he turned again, squinting. “Roses.”

Francis sighed, his anger dulling. He was glad to see James. Not like this, of course, and he wasn’t about to let James go stumbling off into the street.

“No. You can stay tonight. You’re in no shape to go home.” Francis had him by the elbow, steering him inside, closing the door behind them. James’ legs were wobbly, his body pitching to the side, Francis putting an arm around his waist as he guided him upstairs.

“Francis, I’m sorry,” James kept repeating an apology, walking towards the first open door.

“No, not that, you’re not going to be ill on my sheets,” said Francis, pulling him away. “Guest room.”

“You should just tuck me into a carriage,” James slurred.

“And choke on your own vomit facedown in a gutter?” Francis was throwing the covers back, tucking James in and pulling his boots off. “An ignoble end to one of the Franklin Expedition heroes, don’t you think?” He pulled up a chair.

James mumbled something, rolling over.

“Pardon?”

“I’m not a hero,” James said.

Francis softened slightly. They had grown so very close on the journey. He wished deeply for a bit of that back.

“Go to sleep, James. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

\- - -

James did not, in fact, appear to feel better in the morning. It was well past noon before he deigned to grace Francis with his presence.

“My head.” James moved slowly, stepping into Francis’ library and taking a seat in a wing-back, his long legs stretching out in front of him. “I’m sorry. For the rose bushes. And for being late. And for being, well.”

“Soaked to the gills?” Francis peered at him over the top of his book.

“Yes. That.”

Francis set the book down. James looked utterly pitiable. His face was positively gaunt, his hair dull, the dark now laced with silver, his eyes reddened and sad. He drew in a deep breath, working his jaw, looking down at his hands.

“You look well,” James said. “You seem to be doing well, I mean. This house, what I’ve seen of it.” He gestured around, moving as if to speak, more than once.

“Francis, I hope you do not mind me saying. I’ve been very poorly.”

_Clearly,_ Francis thought. That was unkind and he knew it. 

“It’s awful, Francis.” He spoke quietly. “Nightmares. I can’t sleep unless I’ve had at least half a bottle of wine. And when I’m awake, half the time I’m so absolutely tired and miserable that I can barely get up.” His hands clenched and unclenched.

“I drink, and I drink, and I drink and now half of my money is gone and I’ll probably be destitute in six months.” He looked up at Francis, his eyes brimming with tears. “I can’t go back to service. Not that anyone would want me on a boat. I can’t get near one. I went to take a barge across the Thames and I nearly jumped off halfway across. The doctor said it was an attack of nerves.”

His voice had dropped to a whisper.

“I don’t know what I am to do with myself.”

Francis felt that hard anger crack in his chest. He twisted his fingers together, knotting them.

“I don’t sleep,” he said.

James lifted his head. “What?”

“I don’t sleep. A few hours a night if luck favors me. I nap a bit during the day.” He laughed, dry and harsh. “Dreams. Nightmares. I’d rather stay up reading if I can. I don’t believe I’ve had a good night’s rest since I came home.”

“How do you…” James gestured vaguely, wincing.

Francis frowned. “I wrote it all down.”

“And then you burned it?”

“No, James, I kept it. Some of it is very good, I’ll have you know,” he said tartly.

James smiled, sickly, but it was a balm to Francis’ spirits. He felt his ears redden.

“I’m sure it is.”

“And I don’t imbibe. Not since.” Francis leaned forward, templing his fingers. An errant thought had crossed his mind. He was just being polite. That was the only explanation.

“James, would you wish to stay?” he said slowly. “Here, I mean. Until you’re, er, better.”

James bristled. “I don’t, I don’t need your charity, Francis-”

“You vomited in my rosebushes! After, I might add, you were over an hour late to dinner. You smell like the back end of a brewery. And you look almost as bad as you did on Prince William Island.”

James sank into the chair, cradling his head in his hands.

“I don’t like asking for help,” he mumbled.

“Then don’t. Just take it.”

James gave a hollow laugh.

“All right then, Francis. I think maybe I should go back to bed, then.”

“Good. Your abstinence starts today.” Francis sat back in his chair. “You will not care for it much.”

“I suppose I won’t.” James paused at the door, looking back at Francis as he left the room. “Oh. I also threw up in your rubbish can as well.”

\- - -

Being on the other end, Francis had an appreciation for what Jopson had put up with when Francis had cut himself off entirely.

“This is miserable. My insides are dedicated to, well, you know.” James’ eyes were rheumy, his skin a collection of rosy red blotches and sweat. Once a day, Francis would haul him into the bathroom and stand outside the door while he washed, making sure he didn’t fall and hit his head, James swearing at him the entire way there and back.

“Francis, you are an awful man. Leave me alone!” he wailed one morning, his hands scrabbling at Francis’ waistcoat.

“Shan’t, I’m afraid. Oof, you smell terrible. Think how bad it would be for me and my delicate nose if I didn’t make you.” He was half-dragging James down the hallway.

“Always thinking of yourself, you dreadful ogre.” James swore, loudly and colorfully.

“Oh James, you say the sweetest things. When you’re washed, I’ll bring you food.”

“You should just leave me here, let me die.”

Francis sighed. “Stop being dramatic. I dragged you halfway home, I’m not about to let you expire.”

“Did you also row the boat all the way back to England?”

James stumbled, Francis pulling him back onto his feet.

“S-sorry.” James leaned on him heavily. “That was impolite.”

“Commander Fitzjames, apologizing? Must be my lucky day.”

“Now who’s being dramatic?”

It took two weeks before James was able to get his feet under him and for his bowels to settle. He was still weak, dozing often, but his skin returned to a normal shade. Francis, for all of the nasty things James had said to him, was pleased.

He paused at the door, the sun going down behind the tall garden walls, darkening the guest bedroom. James had fallen asleep, a book across his lap, his mouth half-open. A lock of dark hair curled across his forehead. _Lovely,_ Francis thought, leaning on the door jamb, such a peculiar feeling arising, affection, along with the wish to torment James, gently of course. The moment of happiness was replaced though, with a touch of bitterness. He did not wish to interrogate that feeling overmuch, afraid of what answers he would find. He shook his head. James would leave. Nothing to be done, really. Unless.

Francis went in to collect the book. It was bad for the spine to leave it like that.


	2. Chapter 2

Slowly, each day, James’ strength returned to him. Slowly, and then roaringly, feeling alive again. He was still sleeping, poorly, but his head wasn’t muddled or painful or fogged. He seemed to take up Francis’ habit of afternoon naps to supplement his sleepless nights.

“I thought,” Francis started one morning, his newspaper concealing his face. “Perhaps. If you wish. I have the extra rooms. And I do not often have visitors.”

James took a sip from his tea, smiling. Fondness towards Francis was not something he’d have thought possible before embarking for the Passage.

“Francis, what are you asking? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were asking me to stay.”

Francis folded the newspaper, clearing his throat, his face coloring slightly. James bit the inside of his mouth to keep from grinning. Francis made it far too easy. 

“I could use the company.”

James returned in the afternoon with his two trunks.

“James, where’s the rest of your things?”  


“It’s all I’ve got. You must remember what it’s like. Pack light. I’ve been staying with friends.”

“Not your-” Francis stopped short, frowning.

James shook his head, smiling ruefully.

“My apologies.”

He waved a hand. “Fewer people trying to cash in my fleeting heroic status.”

“Well. Go ahead and make yourself at home. Dinner is served at seven, every night. I trust you won’t be late.”

\- - -

Movement outside drew his attention from the task of selecting another book. James peeked through the curtains to the garden out back, walled in. James didn’t know much about botany or horticulture, but he had stayed in many rich, fine houses in his childhood, with lush, fanciful gardens. This was neither.

What it was, was order, but incomplete. A touch of wildness, spots that Francis had, perhaps, neglected. James shook his head. Francis, a sober Francis, was thorough, which meant he’d chosen the places to leave untamed.

Francis was bent over one of the flower beds. Even here, where no one could see, he insisted on a shirt and vest. James remembered the first time he’d seen Francis in full uniform, how jealous he’d been. That was a real captain. Not Franklin, that old fart, the jacket practically bursting at the seams, nor foppish Ross, nor James, feeling as though he’d gotten into the costume box every time he put on his uniform.

And then Francis had been so cruel. Oh, how James had despised him, his insistence on putting James in his place and his utter refusal to be even minimally impressed. He smiled sadly. He’d thought all of that so important, before their slow, cold descent into hellish misery.

“Are we brothers, Francis?” he’d asked. “I would like that very much.” James didn’t remember much after that. He’d gotten terribly weak, so frail that they’d put him in the boat, the pain bad enough that he thought his bones were crumbling to dust within him, his skin opening and not closing back up. Now that he was here, staying with Francis, James felt as though they were farther apart than ever.

Below, Francis wiped his brow with the back of his hand, turning. His face was red from exertion, that sandy blond hair gently mussed and tufting up in the back. He looked up, seeing James at the window, smiling that funny way he did, pursing his lips slightly when he was amused. James held up a hand, earning a full grin from Francis, James spotting that endearing little gap between his front teeth.

A thought intruded, the idea of someone kissing Francis, a thumb resting in the cleft on his chin, a tongue darting out towards that little gap. James felt a lurch in his chest, shaking his head to rid himself of it. Francis beckoned him down, still smiling. That massive divide between them, so stilted and formal, folded in on itself.

Humming to himself, James went downstairs to fix a pot of tea.

\- - -

“Anything to report?” James looked over at Francis, who was reading the paper again. It had rained that day, Francis confined indoors rather than tend to his flowers.

“No, nothing.” He coughed. “Oh. Royal Navy’s, uhm.” His voice grew stilted.

“Francis? What is it?” James sat up, concerned.

Francis cast the paper aside, hurrying out of the room with one hand tugging at his collar.

James picked up the paper, skimming the stories before finding the one he was looking for. The Royal Navy was planning another expedition to find the Northwest Passage.

He found Francis in his room, clawing at his collar.

“I can’t, I can’t breathe, James.” His eyes were wild, his chest heaving as he sat on his bed.

“Stop! Stop.” James spoke slowly, grasping Francis’ wrists gently.

“I can’t breathe,” he repeated, struggling weakly against James.

“Shhh. Yes you can.” James let go, unbuttoning Francis’ collar and loosening his cravat. “You can breathe, Francis. In. Then out.”

Francis’ hands were now at his cuffs, curling under them and trying to rip them up.

“Stop, Francis! Do I have to swaddle you?” Francis was still gasping for air, his body shaking. James undid the cuffs, Francis’ fingers back at his wrists.

“For God’s sake, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“And what if I want to?” Francis snapped.

James looked down at Francis’ arms, his eyes widening in comprehension. Long angry lines scored along the inside of his pale forearm.

“Oh Francis, what is this?” James held his wrists firm. Francis glared at him, but didn’t pull away, his breathing slowing.

His heart hurt, James letting go of one wrist and pushing the sleeve up, using one finger to trace around the four parallel marks.

“Why?”

Francis looked away, setting his jaw, his breath stuttering a bit, blinking rapidly. His lower lip trembled, Francis biting it in.

“I don’t much remember the rescue,” James said quietly. “But…I was very very close to asking you to help me end it.” Francis glanced at him, then back down, relaxing incrementally. “Forever. And I would have asked you because I trusted you. I do trust you, Francis.”

Francis cleared his throat, not speaking for several moments.

“Sometimes,” he paused, coughing again. “Sometimes it feels so awful in this body and my mind will not stop, no matter what I do, and it, it feels like a release. For a moment. But to do so is to invite such shame.” He gave a short shake of his head as though to rid himself of that sensation. “I don’t know. James, it sounds like lunacy.”

“Try me.”

“Sometimes I feel as though my soul has gotten untethered from where it should be.”

“Mmm.” James smiled sadly.

Francis snatched his arm back, pushing the sleeve down.

“Don’t you, don’t you dare-” His face flushed again.

“Francis, why must you be so prickly? Why do you think I was drinking myself into the ground? Do you think I do not comprehend your purpose, your methods?” James took Francis’ arm back, pulling the sleeve back down, slowly, buttoning the cuff of one, then the other, focusing his eyes on his task so he did not have to look up at Francis. It was breaking his heart to atoms, Francis, wonderful maddening Francis, the sharp bits of hurt bubbling up. He wished so dearly he could pluck them all away, or at least fish them out as they surfaced.

He owed him that.

Francis sniffled. James finally looked up, a tear rolling down Francis’ craggy cheek.

“I’m sorry, James.”

James smiled again, letting go of Francis’ wrists, tentatively wrapping an arm around Francis, who stiffened, then relaxed into James, shuddering, James’ collar becoming very damp as Francis wept. James was quiet, waiting until Francis’ breathing stopped catching in his chest.

“I’m a coward,” Francis said through his tears.

“On the contrary, Captain Crozier. You’re the bravest man I know. This is twice you have saved me. Let me return the favor.” He pushed back a lock of hair from Francis’ face. “Now you should rest.”

\- - -

Ross left his card the following week, returning the next day.

“Just…” James pressed his lips together. “Please keep mention of the rescue to a minimum. For both our sakes, and I hope you know why.”

“Of course. Francis! Why don’t you show me the garden? I had no idea you had such a gift with landscaping.”

Francis perked up.

“Ask him about his roses,” James said quietly before he sat down with his book. Perhaps he should write, like Francis had, to help with the nightmares. He was not much of a writer, though. Ross returned a short time later, sinking into a chair near James.

“The garden is beautiful. Do you have any hand in it?”

“No, no. Although at some point Francis is probably going to wish me to earn my keep.” James furrowed his brow. “Not sure what else I’m particularly good for now that seafaring and exploring is out of grasp.”

“James, where is the-” Francis called out from the kitchen.

“The new tin of tea is on the counter. Different kind, if you don’t like it, I can take it back tomorrow.” James heard the metal lid scrape open.

“You two are like an old married couple,” said Ross.

James froze. _Blasted Ross._

“Relax, Fitzjames. I care not a whit about what you get up to. In all honesty, I’m glad Francis has someone here instead of rattling around in this old house all by himself.”

James found he had difficulty breathing and focusing his eyes. He looked up slowly, Ross swinging one leg on the other.

“He doesn’t know,” he said quietly. “He cannot.”

“He does,” Ross countered. “He just hasn’t realized it yet.” He looked over, smiling. “And I much prefer you to Sophia. Oh! Thank you, Francis.” Ross accepted a cup.

“I do like this tea, James. The tin says it’s all the way from China.”

James rolled his eyes, Ross looking at the tea in puzzlement. 

“Isn’t most tea from China?”

“Never you mind. Francis is just having a little joke at my expense. I need to start dinner.”

“Roast duck?” Francis ventured, one brow cocked high.

“Nothing, if you keep that up.”

James caught Ross’ eye. He was grinning broadly.


	3. Chapter 3

“Tree’s dying,” Francis said, sadness in his voice. “I tried very hard. It was doing poorly when I purchased the house.” He rubbed his forehead. He was unsure what he could get to replace it, maybe a birdbath.

“Why stay here? Why not Ireland?” James asked.

Francis sat down, still looking out the window. “There’s nothing for me there. I thought…” he sighed. “I thought I could rebuild a life here, but I’ve built myself a fortress. Alone.” His fingers worried absently at the cuff of his shirt.

He looked over at James, whose face wore a look of slight concern.

“It’s fine, James,” he huffed. “I’m sorry I told you.”

“I’m not,” James said evenly. “Never would have pictured you as a gardener.”

“Neither did I, but I find it very calming, and, well,” he sighed, “I can use any bit of calm. But now I’ll need to get someone out to remove it, too big to do it myself.” He didn’t notice James sit up slightly as he went to put on a pot of tea, busying himself with the task.

The kettle was nearly hot enough when he heard chopping, followed by a crash. Alarmed, he hurried back to the library to look out on the garden.

There was James, ax in hand, taking the tree apart. He’d tied his hair back, that long wavy hair barely long enough for a tail, and he’d discarded his waistcoat. When he turned, Francis could see the shirt was unbuttoned nearly to the waist, clinging to him with perspiration. James raised a hand.

“I hope you do not mind. You wanted it down, didn’t you? I’d like to be useful to you, Francis.”

“I-yes.” Francis stopped, a strange quickening in his blood. Strands of hair were coming loose, framing James’ face and softening the hard edges of his cheeks and jaw. James smiled shyly, looking down.

“Damnably hot. You don’t mind, do you?” James’ thumbs slipped under his braces, slinging them off and letting them dangle against his thighs. His fingers undid the last button before pulling his shirt out entirely.

Francis swallowed hard.

James pulled the suspenders back up onto his bare shoulders, lightly muscled, his skin pale. A trace of hair led down to-

“Wouldn’t want my trousers to fall down.” James laughed, blushing a bit. Francis’ face felt hot, his clothes too snug, his entire being too soft, too grubby, too old, too frayed next to James.

“Don’t stare, Francis. It’s rude.”

Francis shook his head, coughing and looking away. “You appear to have this well in hand,” he said, his voice a little higher, before turning on his heel and walking back into the house.

James apparently could not resist one last parry. 

“You’re welcome!”

\- - -

Someone was yelling.

Francis had dozed off, his rest fitful, light enough that when he heard the noise down the hall, he was awake, nearly instantly. Back in his bed. He’d thought he was back on Terror.

_James._ Francis was scrambling down the hall with the candle, the yells getting louder as he threw the door open. James was thrashing, tangled in his sheets, a sheen on his brow as he yelled inarticulately. Was he supposed to wake someone in a nightmare or not? Francis should know that, shouldn’t he? He set the candle down.

“James!” He shook James by the shoulders. An arm lashed out, Francis catching it, wrapping James tightly in his arms to settle his movements. James let out a soft huff, his eyes fluttering open.

“F-francis…where…oh.” His voice was thick.

“Nightmare?”

“Yes. Back…back on the ship. Cold.” James shivered. He looked younger, all of that sweet, irritating, cheeky charm gone, replaced with a bone-deep tiredness. Francis had seen it when he’d had to put James in the life boat.

“You’re here. The ships are gone. We are a very long way from the Arctic.” He brushed James’ hair back. “Go back to sleep.” He stood, regretting having to let go of James very much indeed.

“Stay,” James said softly. “Until I fall asleep. In case I have another nightmare.”

“James, I…”

“Please don’t make me ask again.” James’ voice cracked.

Francis slid down next to the bed, his head resting against the mattress, his arm reaching out for the book on James’ bedside table. He didn’t think he could look James in the eye. Clearing his throat, he began to read aloud, James’ hand finding his shoulder, squeezing once.

When he heard James’ breathing slow, Francis set the book down. The hand squeezed his shoulder again.

“Stay. Please.” His voice was low.

“All right.” Smiling, Francis turned the page.

\- - -

Francis opened an eye. His back hurt, a dull soreness, the reason immediately clear. He’d fallen asleep against the bed. Francis had slept in much more uncomfortable places, sometimes on his feet or crammed into tiny bunks or sagging hammocks, packed so close to other men that he’d caught an elbow to the face or gut far too often, but it had been over a year since he’d tried to sleep anywhere outside a bed or chair. He blinked slowly. Francis remembered no nightmares. Unusual, highly unusual. When had he last slept without intrusive, vivid dreams?

His leg was asleep, the cause an unpleasant surprise. A warm body was curled against Francis, wrapped in a blanket pulled down from the bed, dark hair loose and messy across his thigh. One of his arms was, oh. Oh dear. Wrapped around James’ shoulder, hemmed in place by his sleeping form, Francis’ fingertips at the ends of that pretty wavy hair.

What was he to do? His mind raced. He could try to slip out without waking James. Unlikely, as Francis soon realized that James also had a hand resting on Francis’ knee. His body rebelled against his attempt to curb his thoughts, hardening. This would not do at all, not with James so close. He shut his eyes tightly.

Yes. He would, he would pretend to wake up, theatrically and loudly. Waking James up would be an accident, and Francis could escape back to his room, lock the door, bury himself in his blankets, imagining James’ long, elegant fingers in place of where his own would be.

“Morning,” James mumbled. “I see you’re awake.” Francis nearly jumped out of his skin.

“M-morning.” Francis coughed. “James, do you-”

James sat up slowly, pressing his hand into Francis’ thighs as leverage.

_Don’t look, don’t look, don’t, don’t, don’t,_ Francis prayed. He grabbed at the blanket, pulling it onto his lap as James rubbed his eyes.

“Sleep well?” Francis asked, trying to keep his voice light. His leg was waking up, the prickling sensation distracting him from his cock.

“Yes.” James finally looked back, his face soft and sleepy. “Thank you. You?”

“Can’t say that sleeping on the floor is all that good for an old man.” He was standing, clumsily, trying to get his legs under him.

“Mmm. You’re not that old, Francis.”

“Older than you. Regardless. I-I have an early appointment that needs attending.” Stumbling, he fled the room.

\- - -

Francis had dozed off in his chair, awaking with a start. He’d been back on that godforsaken island, being chased, the rocks sliding under his feet and preventing him from making any headway, Tuunbaq gaining on him. He shook his head, his brow damp.

“Francis?” James’ face swam into view, his face pinched with worry. “Bad dream?”

“Chased.” His mouth felt sticky and dry, his head aching.

“Mr. Teeth and Claws?”

Francis nodded.

“Come on then,” James said. “To bed.”

“James, I-”

“No arguing.” Francis sighed, following James upstairs. He was changing, pulling on a loose night shirt when the door opened. Francis looked up.

“What-” James was walking to the far side of the bed, throwing the blanket back. “I, James, I don’t-”

James looked at him, his lip pursed. “You’ll sleep better. I’ll sleep better. Don’t argue. I know you love to argue, but for once, don’t. Besides. I fell asleep halfway through one of the chapters, and I’d like to know what happens.” He held out the book, shaking it gently when Francis didn’t say anything. “Go on.”

Francis took it, his mouth opening and closing, looking elsewhere as he got into bed.

“You have such a pleasant voice,” James said.

“And you,” Francis replied, “are a terrible liar.” He opened it, beginning to read, feeling warm all over, continuing until he heard James’ breathing turn to a light snore.

Each morning, Francis would awaken early to admire, then disentangle himself from James, pretending not to notice a hand on his hip, James grumbling and rolling over. It was the best sleep he’d had in months. James looked well-rested, too. He was still having night terrors, but less often, and Francis’ arm slung around his waist would calm him. If James happened to roll over and curl into him, well. It couldn’t be help.

Getting to wake up next to him, it was a sweet delirious torture, James’ hair all tumbled, his shirt coming unbuttoned, revealing his long neck and a bit of collarbone, dark lashes like a child’s doll, his mouth half-open. Francis could imagine running his thumb along that lower lip until it flushed, and when James simply couldn’t take it any longer, Francis would bend in and kiss him, feel the swell of that lower lip on his.

He bustled out of bed, changing and putting on a kettle.

\- - -

James was out all day. He hadn’t volunteered, and Francis hadn’t asked, coming back late in the afternoon. Francis had raised an eyebrow, James merely smiling. “A surprise.” Francis hated surprises.

Then James missed dinner the following day.

“I’m fine,” he’d mumbled into the pillow when he climbed into bed. “And no.” He opened one eye. “I have not been drinking.”

He missed a few more dinners, leaving early in the morning, right after tea. Francis hated to think of where James was off to, and hated even more how he felt when he thought of that. A dark mood settled on him, a cloud of hurt and anger, something he hadn’t felt since Sophia had refused him. He would roll away from James in the evenings.

“I suspect you will be leaving soon.” Francis kept his voice neutral, the paper up so he didn’t have to look at James. He wished to tear it into shreds, feeling foolish for daring to hope that James would stay.

“Do you wish me to go?”

Francis made a small noncommittal noise so that he didn’t have to answer. Footsteps approached his chair, a hand pulling the paper down slowly.

“Francis Crozier, answer me.”

Francis looked away. “This house would be rather empty with me alone.”

James plucked the paper out of his hands, folding it and setting it aside.

“James!”

“But you, Francis, what do you want? Other than a cup of tea and to be let alone in your garden.” James was leaning over him, smiling. “Do you wish me to stay? Here. With you. Indefinitely.”

Francis exhaled loudly.

“Be reasonable, James.”

“I am being reasonable.”

“No, you’re not, you’re grinning like someone about to reveal a joke, of which I would be the punchline.”

James sighed, scratching his eyelid. Francis looked aside, his hands curling into the armrests.

“You can be so very irritable. Just because you only smile when you make a joke doesn’t mean I do the same,” James said.

“Continuing to insult me, I see.”

“Francis, if you don’t tell me what you want, I’ll, I’ll-”

Francis stood, anger lacing his voice, his face flush. How very dare James, after all this time, after all they had been through, everything he’d told him, all of it. The unmitigated nerve of this man.

“What does it matter what I want? What is it you wish to hear? That I wish for you to stay? That I enjoy your companionship very much? That I delight in your conversation? That I, that I…” he stuttered out. “That every moment with you is agony and every moment away from you is misery?” The anger was gone, leaving only raw hurt. He hadn’t felt so alone since the day he’d had to leave Terror. He went to turn away.

James’ arms stopped him, folding him in.

“That is precisely what I wanted to hear.” His face was much too close.

Francis’s face heated up, feeling tight. “How did you know?”

“I have eyes, don’t I?” James said mildly.

“If this is your idea of a jape-” He shrugged out of James’ arms. It must be.

“Oh Francis.” James voice was low. Francis looked up into his eyes, dark, achingly sad. They were always sad, James a moment away from despair, Francis’ heart dashed nearly to bits. “Why do you insist on making this so damnably difficult? Is it that hard for you to believe I could love you?”

Francis’ throat closed up. He blinked slowly, the room feeling a bit like a ship along the open sea.

“Say something.” James’ voice cracked.

Francis took James’ hands, squeezing them. James seemed to shrink until Francis brought them up to his mouth, his lips skirting the knuckles, the backs, turning one hand over and kissing the inside of James’ wrist, feeling where his pulse fluttered, a fragile, delicate thing.

“I enjoy being difficult, James.”

James’ hands cupped Francis’ face.

“I think I liked you better when you were a drunk. Less deliberately obtuse. More unreasonable, though, moody, morose, less attractive.” He tilted his head, kissing Francis lightly. Francis felt his heart stop, his head swimming as his hands gently, tentatively reaching around James’ waist. He wanted, God, he could not think what he wanted. It was beyond want.

He was being pulled towards the chaise lounge.

“James,” he sighed.

“Shhh.” James kissed him again, pulling Francis down. It was soft, gentle, James’ lips smooth and lush, the way Francis had imagined. They were opening, Francis following, tentatively exploring. James’ tongue was meeting his, taking more and more until it was nearly a battle, one Francis was happy to surrender to.

He buried his hands in that dark cloud of James’ hair, pulling his head back so he could look at him, his eyes taking in James’ flushed cheeks, his eyes dark with lust. Francis kissed that cheekbone, hard and high like the prow of a ship, down to the hollow, to his jaw, that jaw that Francis would have killed for. He claimed it, his lips dipping underneath, James inhaling as Francis explored that soft hidden bit of skin.

“I wanted to kiss you each morning,” he whispered hoarsely, his prick half-hard, pressing into his trousers. 

“I wanted you to. Do you know,” James let out a gasp as Francis kissed the front of his neck, feeling his throat bob beneath his lips. “I undid the button every night.”

“James, you are, and I say this with absolute sincerity.” Francis pressed his lips to James’ again, and again, and again. “An incorrigible,” his hand went to James’ thigh, surprised by his boldness, “maddening,” he squeezed, feeling James arch, “tease.”

“Francis,” James warned.

“We have waited this long, you can stand to wait a little longer, Commander Fitzjames.”

“I cannot, and I will not.”

Francis was unbuttoning James’ vest, the silver cool under his fingers, hard next to the soft velvet of the waistcoat.

“I am making an awful mess of this. When did unbuttoning things become so wretchedly difficult?”

“Hang the buttons,” James said, pushing Francis back into the couch, his mouth along Francis’ jaw, up to beneath his ear, biting gently on his earlobe. Francis groaned, James’ teeth sending a shock along the base of his skull, down, down to his cock. He squirmed, his hips jutting up to meet James, who’d straddled him, his knees against the back of the chair, hemming Francis in. Francis’ hands pulled James in, that thin, lithe frame, clutching at his shoulders.

“Francis,” James whispered. “Francis, Francis, Francis, what are we to do with you, and with this?” His hand dragged down the front of James’ shirt, fingers catching on the buttons, the pocket flaps, down, over his thigh to where Francis’ erection was tenting the fabric. “You really shouldn’t have.” A hand pressed into Francis, gripping him. “For me. This belongs to me now,” a sternness in his voice.

“Do you intend to spend the afternoon torturing me, Fitzgames?”

“Perhaps. Only if you are deserving of it.” James bent down, undoing the button and placket, his hand furtively inching inside, Francis’ hips involuntarily bucking up. His touch was electric, Francis biting back a gasp as he reached up to clasp James’ neck.

James grinned, pulling Francis out, looking down and making a small noise of surprise.

“Captain Crozier, you come armed with a mortar.” James squeezed, Francis groaning, the sight of those slim, pale fingers around his hardening cock nearly causing him to finish. James’s other hand was tipping Francis’ chin back, kissing him, settling his lips against Francis, the friction of the rough trouser fabric and James’ hand, warm and calloused, teasing along him, a finger rolling across the tip, where Francis had beaded moisture. He was hot, all over, heat spiking behind his neck, his forehead, his wrists and fingers, his belly, his thighs, any place that James’ body pressed into his was like a brand.

“That’s it, Captain Crozier, the enemy is within range, you must sight it and fire before it escapes.”

“James,” Francis gasped out, his hands flexing against James’ back, sliding down, cupping his backside and squeezing, earning a sharp intake of breath. 

“There, nearly,” Francis’ voice was more breath than voice, that upwelling of need tightening in his belly. James kissed him, hard, catching Francis’ lower lip in his teeth, letting go just as that need burst like a dam, James leading him up and over the edge to oblivion, Francis groaning into James’ mouth.

His eyes fluttered open.

“Well, the good news is you’ve hit your target.” James was flush, his eyes wide and dark. “The bad news is you made rather a hash of it.” Francis looked down.

“Oh. My apologies.”

“Your laundress will be quite upset with you.” James kissed his forehead. “Unless you find some way to make it up to him. Now change your clothes. I’ll not have you at the dinner table in soiled things.” He kissed him again, softly.

“But don’t you, don’t you wish-”

“After dinner.” James smiled, his face rosy and that beautiful hair tousled. “We have time. All the time in the world.”

\- - -

“Compliments to the cook,” Francis said, smiling at James. “Where did you learn that? China? Namibia? That awful cook on Erebus?”

“Francis, I have been more places than that. Many more. And I will tell you about all of them-”

“I’m sure you will.”

“-after we are done. Enough small talk.” He grimaced at Francis. “And don’t think you won’t pay for that insubordination.”

“Insubordination?” Francis said in mock outrage. “You were my second!”

“There are no seconds here, Francis.” James took his hand.

Francis brought one lamp into the room, the warm candlelight softening the hard edges. He felt exquisitely self-conscious in front of James, his face flushing with embarrassment.

“Is the great explorer Captain Francis Crozier shy?”

Francis looked away.

“Come here, you oaf.” James was unbuttoning Francis’ waistcoat, smiling gently. His nimble fingers were untying the cravat.

“A continuous and unrelenting barrage of insults. That clever tongue will get you into trouble. Ouch!” James had snapped one of the braces against Francis. “You-”

James kissed him, hard.

“Enough.”

“You started it,” Francis grumbled.

James rolled his eyes, slipping the braces off Francis’ shoulders. “Now. If you are quite finished, I would like to tell you what I see. The handsomest, broadest shoulders. None of this sloping nonsense,” James said, looking down at his with a frown. “Oh.” His eyes lit up. “I thought I spotted freckles.”

“I tried to scrub them off when I was a child.” Francis shrunk back a fraction.

“Now why would you do that?” James was pulling him back in, relieving him of his boots and trousers. “Francis you are…” James’ eyes roamed up and down. “Magnificent,” he breathed out.

Francis tumbled James onto the bed, feeling himself stiffen as James laughed and struggled against him. Francis was undressing him, roughly, needing to see James fully and desperately.

“Stop! You’ll rip something!” James pushed Francis’ hands away. Francis grinned, straddling him, admiring the way his shoulders flexed, his body emerging, that smooth pale skin, goosebumps rising as Francis ran a finger down his arm, his hands tracing down James’ sides to his slim hips.

“Truly the handsomest man in the Royal Navy, and here he is, in my bed.” Francis bent in, pressing his lips around that collarbone, the very same that James had teased him with every morning, feeling James shiver beneath him. Francis slid down, dragging the braces off, wrestling with his trousers, coming to rest between James’ legs, his fingers grasping at his linens, James’ cock springing free.

“Come on, Francis, don’t just let me lie here.”

“James I-” Francis swallowed. “I don’t quite know what it is I am to do.”

“Well, I believe at some point you will need to open your mouth.” James grunted, twisting a hand into the covers as Francis put his fingers around James’ cock, leaning forward to press his lips right at the tip before taking him in.

Such intoxicating power, watching James’ chin lift as Francis dipped his head lower, bending up to press his tongue right under the crown, around the edge and along the slit. He knew what his own prick felt like in his hands, but it was another thing entirely to have one between his lips. He could admire James, fully, his magnificent cock, his thighs, strong and lean. Francis sat up, running a hand down James’ knee, his calf, down to a shapely ankle, squeezing, before sliding his hand back up, James’ hair dark and soft, hefting the leg up and over his shoulder, returning his mouth to James only after he began to beg.

Francis felt a hand on his head, fingers threading into his hair. He looked up again. James had propped himself up on one elbow, his eyes heavy. He had flushed, from his cheeks, down his neck, the ripeness across his chest. What a sight, and here Francis was, worshipping at some sinful temple. He felt himself harden against the bed. No. This was about James.

“There, yes, Francis. Jesus Christ.” James had drawn his lips back, breathing heavily, his thighs clenching under Francis’ palm. Francis bobbed his head lower, nearly gagging on James, feeling him hit the farthest reaches. James hissed out a breath as Francis gently held his balls and tugged. His jaw ached, tears pricking his eyes, James tasting bitter and musky. Francis didn’t care. His mouth tightened around James, being rewarded by a groan, James hitching up to meet him. Francis grasped roughly at James’ hips, holding him in place even as he tried to jut up into him, moving his head up and down with increasing speed. James let out a low sob, his head back, mouth open as he twisted himself into the blanket.

“Francis,” James stuttered out as warning, his hand tightening and his thighs pinning Francis as he came, an explosion into Francis’ mouth, hot, the bitterness nearly gone. He swallowed, smiling and pushing James’ legs open to free himself, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. He paused to admire his handiwork, James nearly fully naked and splayed out, breathing heavily, his eyes closed. _The ruin of Commander James Fizjames by Captain Francis Crozier, _he thought, finding his nightclothes.__

____

\- - -

James had tucked himself under Francis’ arm, his eyes closed, that lean angular frame fitting surprisingly well into him. Francis looked down, his eyes finding the slight puckered scar on James’ arm, touching it gently.

“Ah. The famous siege of Chinkiang.”

“Would you like to know a secret? But you must promise not to tell another soul.” James looked up, those large dark eyes merry.

Francis squinted.

“I promise.”

“On your honor, Francis.” James’ hand was on Francis’ thigh, warm and comforting.

“All right. Yes. On my honor as a captain in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. There. Satisfied?”

James nodded soberly, putting his head back down.

“I dropped my sidearm. And it discharged.”

Francis frowned before realization set in.

“You mean to tell me, your arm, and Nelson’s wound, it was self-inflicted?” Francis burst out laughing. “That whole story, and you dropped your bloody gun?” He was laughing so hard he began to cry.

“Shouldn’t have told you,” James grumbled.

Francis wiped his face, his laugher slowly subsiding. 

“Dropped your gun, James. Be glad you didn’t tell me back then. I would have never let you hear the end of it.”

James stiffened slightly, looking back down.

“Francis, has it ever occurred to you that you were the one I wanted to impress the most? Franklin, of course, but he was not difficult to affect. You were the better sailor.”

Francis stroked James’ hair, a warm, lush feeling in his head. He felt a little bad for laughing at James. What was this feeling? Admiration, contentment, a touch of shame, and something else, difficult to name as though he did not know it already. 

“Your talents and exploits are undeniable, James, but you, yourself, you stand on your own two feet. Your character, your perseverance. Your courage,” Francis said.

“Truly?”

Francis touched his lips to James’ hair. He smiled, a memory surfacing.

“I was miserably ill on my first ocean voyage.” Francis paused. “Sea-sick.”

“You what?”

“Spent half the time on deck being ill over the sides and the rest with a bucket between my knees. Vomited into my hat, more than once.” He chuckled to himself. “Was sick all over my commanding officer. Ruined his hat as well.”

James looked up, grinning.

“Francis Crozier, milliner’s nightmare. Please don’t be ill on any of your hats. I am not well-versed in the cleaning of those articles.”

Francis blew out the lamp, sliding down next to James.

“Does this mean I can stay?” James asked, tucking his head into Francis’ chest, beneath his chin. Their legs tangled together, sliding and fitting, an ankle hooking around a calf, knees overlapping.

“I insist,” Francis murmured. “I insist, James.” He felt James wilt into him, this handsome, beautiful, proper man. His. His James.


	4. Chapter 4

James knelt in front of one of his trunks, a hand resting on the top. He took it away, folding it in his lap and knotting his fingers. His thoughts were too jumbled to concentrate on the task at hand.

He’d unpacked the other one. Francis’ room, no, their room had ample space in the wardrobe and dresser. This chest, though. He blinked, his eyes damp. That’s where Francis found him, his hand back across the lid, running a thumb over one of the rivets, smooth and rounded. Francis sat next to him, tucking his legs to the side.

“James?”

“Things from the voyage.” James snuffled away a tear. “I haven’t opened it since we returned, just carrying it around like a box full of ghosts.”

“We can put it away if you wish.”

“No. I tire of it, tire of it taking up space, not knowing what lies inside.” His hand withdrew a key from his vest, inserting it and feeling the lock click open. Francis slipped a hand around his waist.

“It’s exhausting, Francis, carrying all of this up here.” He tapped a finger to his forehead. “All of these thoughts and memories and sometimes it just will not stop, like some kind of infernal punishment.” He scratched the back of his head. “The worst of it is when it’s bad, it’s so excruciatingly dull. Imaging telling someone you cannot go see them because you’ve been unable to get out of bed. Or because you haven’t washed in a week or eaten. How difficult can it be to rise and change one’s clothing? I’ve been doing it all my life.” He felt the tears flow out.

“I know.” Francis pressed his lips to James’ temple. “I spent almost two weeks abed last winter before Ross nearly banged the door down. May I?”

James nodded, the lump in his throat keeping him from speaking. Francis leaned forward, opening the chest, a smell of dust and disuse permeating out. James sat up, steadying himself.

On top was his old bicorn hat, discolored, the gold fringe tangled and loose. Underneath, the peaked hat, the band fraying and the edges faded. He turned it over.

“I put my initials in everything,” he said softly, pointing it out to Francis, setting it aside. His fingers sifted through papers, letters, a handful of buttons from one of his old coats. A scrap of fabric and lace drew his eye, Francis’ too. He smiled.

“Part of that dress, do you remember?”

“Why did you save it?” Francis asked gently. He touched the ruffles with care.

“It was pretty and frivolous and we had a dearth of pretty, frivolous things. It got ruined, all that smoke, but I saved a part. It’s foolish.”

“I like that you appreciate pretty things.”

James set it in the open lid. A figurine was underneath. 

“From Lady Silence. Never got the chance to return it.” He was crying again, over this little trinket, Francis’ arm tightening. Solid, dependable Francis. He could get through the rest of the trunk.

At the bottom, James found the spyglass.

“James, I believe that is mine.”

He smiled. “Was it? I borrowed it for the photographs.”

“Borrowing implies you intended to return it.”

“I did!” James protested. “I just didn’t get to it. And then it went missing from my berth.”

“Did it. How odd.”

“Francis! Going through another officer’s belongings is a punishable offense.”

“So’s thievery.”

James smiled again, turning back to the trunk. At the very bottom were the photos, Franklin, James, and Francis.

“How did you get these?” Francis asked softly. He ran a finger down the front of his picture.

“I asked for an extra copy of each of them. I know this will be difficult for you to believe, Francis, but I was exceedingly vain. Thought I would put them up on my mantle when I returned, that I’d be as respected as you two. Conquerors of the north.” He held his up. “Your spyglass.”

Francis took the photo, squinting at it. “Why are you holding it like that? Like an infant.”

James frowned. “Franklin held it like that in his photograph, so…so I did as well.” He felt his chest shudder. 

“How do you suppose the spyglass got back in here?” Francis asked.

James shifted guiltily. “Took it after you punched me in the jaw.”

“Oh.” Francis’ blue eyes were sad. “I’m sorry for that, James. You didn’t deserve it.”

James took the photo again. “I was so naïve.” James was sinking into Francis, who was stroking his back.

“We all were.”

“I’d like to put them on the mantle, if you don’t mind.” Francis’ front was a warm, safe place to rest his head. “I’m getting your shirt all wet.”

“Never you mind my wardrobe.” Francis leaned back, brushing James’ hair away from his face, smiling that half-smile. How James loved that smile, the one he’d hated back on the ships. A thumb was wiping away the tears from his face, a gentle kiss on his cheek. He could anchor himself to Francis. 

“I’ve put on a pot of tea. Come down when you’re ready. I’ve just the place for these.” He stood, taking the pictures, leaving James with the trunk.

In the study, James saw that Francis had put the pictures up, the scrap of the dress underneath like a doily and the buttons scattered around. James was mildly surprised that Francis was capable of such understated beauty, before reminding himself of Francis’ garden.

“Where have you been getting off to?” Francis asked. 

“Visiting with a distant relative. I invested some of what was left. I’ve no wish to be a drain on you.” James looked away.

“James, you are not a drain.”

“I also have a surprise. For you. And for me.” _Us,_ he thought.

Francis set down his paperwork, squinting at James. 

“I do not like surprises.”

“I know you do not, but you seem rather fond of me, and I do.”

“Surprises are not transitive, James.” He looked down at his desk. “But,” he sighed theatrically, “I will endeavor to enjoy it.”

\- - -

He was on Erebus, trapped. It was cold, God it was so very cold, leeching into his bones. James was dressed for the ice, his cloak up to the neck and down to his ankles. What would have kept him warm out in the open was now an encumbrance, seeming to constrict with each movement he made. He couldn’t get his arms free.

Above, he could hear scrabbling, scratching, clawing, men screaming and a gun going off. It was coming for him. The collar was too tight. He couldn’t get it off. He backed up, tripping, falling hard, the wind knocked out of him. James rolled to his side, trying to get back up, his hands near useless, tearing at that goddamned cape. Something was coming down the ladder, thumping and scraping and falling. He looked up, that ridiculous bloody hat falling into his eyes. He couldn’t see, crawling away, unable to get purchase on the wood floor, hearing it come closer, its breathing louder and louder, claws scraping, breathing heavier as it approached, until it was on him.

James screamed, thrashing, sitting bolt up, awake and sweaty, not on Erebus, no, in bed, here, in bed next to-

"Shhhh, James, I have you.” Francis was holding him, soothing him. James was shaking.

“It was chasing me,” he said, letting Francis pull him back onto the bed and rolling him onto his side.

“Not real, James. It’s not real.” Francis’s front was curled around James’ back, as he murmured into his ear. James didn’t return to sleep for several hours, but it did not matter much. He’d never felt safer than when he was ensconced in Francis’ strong grasp. Francis, strange, confounding, grouchy Francis. So much bluster over such a courageous heart. How did James ever stand a chance?

\- - -

James’ finger traced along Francis’ shoulder, connecting freckle to freckle. They were having a late Saturday morning, breakfast and tea and then a return to bed.

“Stop that,” Francis said.

James did not, smiling.

A hand caught his wrist. Francis’ face was pinched in annoyance. James grinned, snatching the paper and tossing it aside over Francis’ protest and straddling him. 

“Won’t.” He was sliding his hands under Francis’ shirt. James might have been slender and elegant, but Francis was all toughness and muscle and heft. His thighs alone, two solid ship masts, were enough to send James’ blood supply thundering south. He thrust his hips into Francis, hearing his breath hitch, Francis’ large, thick fingers holding James’ waist as James pulled his night shirt off.

James reached between them, finding Francis’ cock, that weighty dark thing.

“James,” Francis gasped out, his back arching into him as his grip tightened. James pulled one of Francis’ hands onto him, moaning and moving forward so that their hands and cocks met, fingers tangling together. 

God but he was hard, watching Francis fumble and grip and rub, wetness slicking their fingers. Francis had flushed all the way to his ears, his eyes screwed shut.

“Look at me, Francis.” James’ voice was thick and low, heat thrumming through him, his legs a dull ache. “Now,” he ordered.

Francis opened his eyes, his hands jerking to meet both of them, crying out as he came, ribbons shot across James’ stomach. He sagged, loosening his grip.

“Don’t you dare,” James growled. Francis bit his lip, smiling, gripping James with both hands, his efforts making soft wet sounds, meeting James as he thrust up, need, tight and hot and raw, everything in him contracting and then, he was catching that release, expanding out fast, too fast, adding himself to the sticky mess between them as he yelled Francis’ name, over and over.

Francis sighed and laughed, his brow arched up. “James, you undo me entirely.”

James leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Francis’ temple, cupping that rough cheek.

“You’ve no idea, Francis.”

\- - -

Francis was in one of his black moods. James knew better than to prod, generally leaving a cup of tea and a kiss to the forehead before retreating from the library. He knew better and yet here they were, having an argument over something deeply unimportant.

“Why do you insist on pushing me away from you?” he spat, wanting to tear his hair out. James’ blood was up. Francis could be so infuriating.

“Because you’re going to bloody well leave me!”

His anger collapsed. Francis turned away, pressing the heel of his hand to his temple.

“Francis.” James took his hand, his voice low, pulling him to the chaise. James sat, looking up at him. “What part of you thinks that? I’ve got all my worldly possessions here. I’ve taken over half of your wardrobe. What part of you?”

“Just…here.” Francis touched his head. “It’s ludicrous. But there’s a part of me that whispers in my ear that you will go.” His voice was barely audible. “I nearly lost you once before. I could not bear to lose you a second time.” His fingers laced into James’, who felt his heart bruise.

James bit back a cough, his face flushing. Maddening Francis. Entirely unfair how much power he had over James. He kissed Francis’ hands. 

“Where would I go? Who would have me, with my fits and nightmares? Who else but you?” He looked up at Francis again, that soft hurt on his face making James regret every cross word he’d said to him. He paused, smiling. “Would you like to see your surprise? I think you’ll like it.” He stood, returning with two large wrapped parcels he had hidden in the guest room. 

“Ross is having a soiree next week. He has invited us.”

Francis frowned. “Does he…”

“Yes. He’s most perceptive.” 

Francis sat, his hands at the twine.

“Our absence will be noted, but excused, if you do not wish, though I thought it might be a nice outing. Either way, open it.” James knew he was talking too much.

Francis’s fingers pulled the string open, the paper crinkling under his hand. He let out a small gasp.

“You should not have done this. James. I know how much these must have cost you.” It was a set of dress uniforms, fresh and clean and pressed, trousers, shirtsleeves, vest, a dark cravat and jacket, buttons shined up, epaulets, the fringe coiled tight.

“I seem to recall you preferred a slightly wider collar with the buttons higher. Regardless, I didn’t pay for them. Convinced someone at the navy that if it wants its heroes out and about, they would need proper attiring.”

Francis appeared transfixed, his hands grazing the buttons, shiny brass, curving under the wool lapels, rubbing the fabric between his fingers.

“All right, James. But I do not wish to stay overlong. Promise?”


	5. Chapter 5

James insisted on dressing him. His hands pulled the braces up over Francis’ clothed shoulder, tied and fussed over the cravat. Francis was secretly pleased to see that he still fit into the uniform, based on measurement from before the expedition. James was worrying his hands at the waistcoat buttons, the buttonholes snug in their newness. He helped Francis into the coat, stiff and crisp, attaching the epaulets. His eyes lit up as the coat came closed.

“Captain Crozier, you are a sight. Very much brings out the blue in your eyes.”

Francis blushed, slipping back out of the coat while James dressed.

“I wanted blue eyes growing up,” James said.

Francis looked over.

“My father…his wife both had blue eyes. And I got brown. Which meant…” James trailed off. He cleared his throat again. “Wait here,” he said, leaving before Francis could say anything.

Francis did loathe surprises, but even he had to admit that he was enjoying this. He turned back to the mirror, not displeased with what he saw, smiling until the guilt crested, crashing down like a rogue wave. James found him sitting on the bed, his head in his hands.

“Francis, I-”

He looked up. James had two hats and two pairs of gloves.

“I don’t know that I should go. James…why did we survive? Why are we getting dressed for a party, a bloody party? I could have done more. If I’d tried, more would be alive. I failed my men.”

James brought his lips to the back of Francis’ hand, holding it against his cheek.

“I’ve never known someone as courageous as you, Francis. A lesser man would have left me, and the others to die. I never stopped believing you when you proclaimed we would live. Isn’t it enough that you and I survived?” He paused, a finger worrying along the outside seam of his trousers. “We are men, not God, no matter how many of us think we are godlike. We govern only ourselves, and who lives and dies is beyond our wildest ideas and machinations.” He kissed his hand again.

Francis rubbed at his eye. What had he done to deserve this? He’d tried to lead a good life, although not nearly good enough, he suspected, to have such patience and unselfishness bestowed upon him. 

“Thank you,” he said quietly, looking up. “My god, but you are handsome, and you have the loveliest eyes, even if you wished them different.”

James’ face colored. “So you’ll go?”

Francis nodded. James handed him the bicorn hat. 

“Try not to vomit into this one, Captain Crozier.”

The carriage ride was short, no time for much anything except Francis fiddling with the buttons and cuffs, his fingers shaking slightly until James stilled them with a hand.

“Careful James, you’ll be getting a lot of attention from the ladies.”

James made a face. “You don’t think I’ll be touched with jealously of you either?”

“Don’t tease, it’s unkind.”

“You still do not see it, do you? Francis, you have the bearing of a captain and a leader. People may look at me, but they are drawn to you. I was.”

He stepped out of the carriage, putting the hat on and reaching out a hand for Francis.

“All the way back then?” He raised his eyebrows.

“Oh no. Not like that.” James grinned. “Back then I hated you.”

\- - -

The party was lively and bright and there were entirely too many people for Francis’ liking. He’d never been one for small talk, but it was exponentially more difficult now, given that there was to be another expedition. A great number of people wanted more of Francis’ story. He spent the evening deflecting their questions, growing less artful at it as the night wore on.

“Mrs. Deneuve, why don’t you give Captain Crozier a bit of breathing room?” Ross was at his elbow, leading him away.

“Thank you for rescuing me, James.”

“I’ve had practice.”

“Ah yes, the famous wit of polar explorer Captain Ross.”

Ross smiled. “Lovely to see you among the public, Francis. Your color looks better.” He dropped his voice. “And how is Fitzjames?”

Francis just smiled, his heart blooming.

“Are you happy?”

“I am. Still a great amount of…dark moods.” He paused. “But yes. Do you think less of me for it?

“God no, Francis, not after what you’ve been through. You do deserve it. A bit of happiness. The both of you.”

“Francis.” James was behind him, his voice low. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but could we go?” James’ cheeks were flushed, his large eyes downcast. He looked as pretty as a picture, the light catching the grey in his dark locks, his eyes, all the sharp and dangerous angles of his face, the angry deep marks down each cheek, the little rounded part of his chin that Francis wanted to reach out and grab, the way he pressed his lips together when he was upset, just like now.

“Please,” he begged. “Ross, you understand, do you not?”

Ross flapped a hand. “Go home. You’ve been here long enough.” 

James wouldn’t say much the ride, huffing and sighing until Francis put one hand on his knee. He was still wound tight when they arrived home.

“Do you wish to tell me what is bothering you so?” Francis asked gently, taking their hats and gloves.

“Someone…” he set his jaw. “Someone said, when they thought I could not hear, that I’d flirted my way onto the expedition, and that’s how I must have gotten out. Only that is not what they meant.” His tall frame sagged. “They still think of me as vain and foolish and nothing more.”

Francis wrapped his arms around him, holding him gently as if he were a stunned bird, saddened at what James had lost on that trip. But James, here and now, with all the impurities having been burned and scraped and frozen away, that gentle soul beneath all the hurt and puffery, for him and him alone.

“Take me to bed, Francis,” James said quietly.

“Come here, you delicate pretty thing.”

“Delicate? I’ll have you know-” James was cut off as Francis swept him into his arms like a proper lady.

“Shhhh. Let us adjourn upstairs, and then, if you are very good, I will take all of your clothes off.” James was not as light as a woman, but Francis found he did not have too much difficulty, particularly taken by the way James clung to his shoulders, his breath hot on Francis’ collar.

He took his time undressing James, batting his hands away every time he tried to assist.

“Francis!” he said impatiently.

“No.”

James reached for Francis’ waistcoat.

“I said _no,_ James.” He reached into James’ trousers, smiling as he found him at attention. He bent in, kissing James, hard, crushing him into the mattress, relishing the squeak of protest he earned from the bedframe.

What it was to admire James like this, undressed, clothes scattered about, praying that he never tired of such a sight. Francis ran his hands down over his chest and that bloom of color, dragging along his ribs to that taut range of muscles of James’ stomach, stopping at his hips, those hips that Francis could live and die upon, over and over and over.

He kissed James again, soft, his lips open, tongues meeting, Francis’ overture to what he wished to do with that mouth. James exhaled heavily, the sensation clouding Francis’ brain. He didn’t notice James sliding his hands down Francis’ arms and grabbing his wrists.

“James.” His voice had a note of warning, too late though, as James was on him, legs tangling around Francis and rolling him over onto his back.

“Delicate, Francis?” James looked triumphant. Francis knew he could have pinned James back down, but this, James straddling him, holding his arms fast, he was even more ravishing, his eyes deep and dark.

They made short work of the rest of the clothing, the finest dress clothes scattered about like some kind of storm-weathered rummage sale. The things Francis would do to James, but he was content to simply look at him as James clambered back into bed, all long lines, the sharp curve of his calves, the spot on his low back that bowed in, and that beautiful cock. He reached a hand out, as though he wasn’t familiar with how or where or what to do, his thumb running over the tip until James moaned, his mouth hanging open, a profane and dizzying sight.

“F-francis…” James’ voice was low and needful.

He bit his lip, his hand slipping lower, below the crown, feeling James’ fingers curl painfully into his thighs.

“I…oh god Francis. I need you…” He groaned again, taking one of Francis’ hands and bringing it up to his mouth. He kissed the wrist, the palm, his lips soft, wet, sending shocks down his arm, bypassing his sense of order and reason, straight to his hardening member.

And then his fingers were in James’ mouth, deep, two of them, James biting gently as his tongue and lips swirled around them. Francis’ eyes widened as James moved the hand down to his low back, lower, pausing.

“Is this what you wish?”

James nodded, not meeting his eye. “Please Francis.”

“Again,” Francis ordered, slipping the hand lower, find the spot where James wanted him.

“Please. In-in me.” It was near begging, the words drawn out, languid, cut off as Francis pressed in, James’ thighs clamping down around him. His spare hand was at James’ cock again.

“N-no.” James swatted it away. “Not ready to be done.”

A hand, even a finger on Francis’ cock would have had him spurt all over James, watching him jerk and writhe against Francis, who was venturing deeper, two fingers, James gasping and sighing. 

Suddenly he was slipping out, James lifting himself up.

“Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean, I’m sorry-”

James shook his head, turning to rummage around in a side drawer for a container of something. His hand was on Francis, slick and cool, causing him to gasp.

“James, what-”

“A good explorer is always prepared.” James was back on him, guiding him up between his legs, Francis’ cock pressing where his fingers had been. Francis looked up, dazed, James giving a small nod.

“Jesus Christ,” Francis muttered as James sank slowly onto him, hot, good God, nearly sweltering, James’ moans reverberating through him as though Francis was a bass being strummed. He’d sat up, fully, James’ arms about his shoulders, his face pressed into Francis’ cheek, breath hot and damp. Francis could barely make out what James was saying, as though said a mile away and not directly into his ear.

“Good,” James go out. “There, yes, keep going” and then Francis’ name over and over. Francis’ hips, unbidden, thrust up to meet James, who was hard against Francis’ stomach. He’d been wrong. _This_ was the altar he wished to fall upon and worship for a lifetime, James on top of him, his body clenching, hot and slick and tight against Francis. He was kissing James again, artlessly and thoroughly. He would win this battle, feeling James tremble as their hips met, Francis buried to the hilt.

“Put your hands on me, Francis.”

He complied, willingly and gratefully. Francis was so very close, wanting James to finish as well, that look on James’ face when he came worthy of the finest museum. James swore, repeatedly, as Francis tugged on him, arching into Francis as he spasmed, warmth splattering onto his stomach.

James’ limber form was still riding Francis, slowing as he finished.

“You feel…” Francis thrust up, “so,” he gritted his teeth, “fucking good,” punctuating the last word with a sharp intake of breath, his cock twitching, groaning as he spent himself inside James, his James, holding him fiercely, muffling himself against James, who had gone almost entirely boneless. Francis pressed his lips to that knobby shoulder. 

“James, dearest, much as I wish, I do not think you can stay this way all night.”

James sighed and smiled, shifting off Francis’ lap.

Francis had cleaned them up as best he could, gathering James into his arms, his eyes roving the small part of his neck and back that he could see. Francis pushed aside a lock of hair so that he could press his lips to the nape.

“I was wrong,” Francis murmured into his neck.

“How so?”

“You are no delicate thing. You are made of salt and steel.”

James drew in a breath, his form shuddering gently. He rolled over slowly, facing Francis.

“Francis Crozier, a poet. Imagine that.” He kissed Francis. “You are made of, hm.” He smiled. “Brass buttons. Polished wood. Fire. Iron.”

He looked up with those eyes, sad and lovely and beautiful before rolling back over.

“I love you, James,” Francis said softly, the words catching in his throat. They were out before he could snatch them back.

James tensed, Francis feeling his heart constrict, before he reached back for Francis’ free arm, bringing it around his midsection, melting into Francis.

“I love you as well, Francis.”


	6. Chapter 6

_Always the capacity to surprise me,_ James though wryly as a hand pushed him down to his knees.

“James, I am in the middle of something!” Francis had said angrily, minutes before. James had squeezed in between the desk and Francis’ chair, leaning in to hook his fingers under the lapels of Francis’ vest.

“No you’re not.”

Francis grabbed his wrist, his eyes flashing. “I am trying to keep a roof over our heads and I have had just,” an arm was around James’ waist, firm, nearly painful, pulling him in, “about,” he grimaced, “enough of you.”

“As though I don’t contribute, Francis?” He struggled against him, biting his lip. “Who cleans your clothes? Who makes your bed?” He dropped his voice to a growl. “Who brings you to attention?” he said, grinding his hips into Francis.

He was forced back to the bookcase, stumbling over his own feet, crumpling into the shelves as Francis held him in place. James was hard, exquisitely so, wrenching a hand free to fumble at Francis’ trousers.

“No.” Francis’ hips pinned him in place. “Were you always this insubordinate or just with me?” He grabbed James’ wrists, pinning them above his head, his groin pressed into James, rutting against it. James bit back a moan. It was nearly too much.

Francis paused, looking at James, his face tilted to the side in question, his grip on James’ wrists loosening incrementally. As if Francis even needed an answer. James’ entire being was aflame.

“Yes.” The word escaped him.

“Good.” Francis ground into him. “I ought to put you over my knee for such insolence. You could use a good ravishing.”

James’ knees nearly buckled. “Let go,” he said, his voice pitching higher.

Francis squeezed his wrists once before letting go.

“On your knees,” Francis ordered, his lips curling wickedly.

James knelt slowly, looking up, pursing his lips.

“Well?” Francis’ hand was at James’ jaw, his thumb rubbing James’ lower lip. “Nothing from that smart mouth now?”

“Sir.” He leaned in, running his nose along the placket, Francis rewarding him with another groan, lower and ragged. Francis was pulling himself out.

James sat up, licking his lips, Francis’ eyes nearly closed as James opened his mouth, his tongue flattened along the underside, the head going past his lips. Francis was gripping one of the bookcase shelves, James taking his other hand and placing it at the crown of his head. Fingers stroked his hair before tangling in it, gentle pressure guiding James farther.

“Such a smart, pretty little mouth,” Francis said, his eyes hard and bright, a look that made James rock up farther on his knees, anything to avoid making a complete mess in his trousers. He loved the way Francis looked at him in that moment, heat, anger, need.

Francis was driving a bit harder, pulling James off with a slight wet sound. Again, he was asking, his shoulders up. James put a free hand on top of Francis’, pushing himself back onto Francis’ cock.

“Christ Almighty.” Francis moved faster, deeper, James feeling his mouth overwhelmed. What a sight he was at this angle, Francis’ trousers in disarray, his eyes clenching shut. James’ eyes began to water, a hand grasping at Francis’ meaty thigh. If he expired right now, James thought, he could pass onto the afterlife happy, although it would be a nasty surprise for Francis, who was making pinched noises of frustration.

Francis pulled James back again. “Nearly there, James,” he said thickly.

James shook his head free of Francis, letting that beautiful cock back in his mouth, feeling Francis’ thigh tighten before he flooded his mouth, accompanied by a muffled groan, James sat back, smiling, wiping his lower lip with one finger before licking it clean.

Francis sank to the floor next to James.

“Not, not finished.” His voice was harsh.

“Francis-”

His thick palm pressed into the inside of James’ trousered leg. “I can feel how much you’ve enjoyed this James, now let me get a look.” He voiced his approval as he tugged James’ prick out.

“Not something you haven’t seen before.”

“Mmmm.” His hands wrapped around James, who melted into him, gripping his shoulder for support as those sturdy thick fingers touched him, hard, soft, one hand reaching further into his pants to tug at his stones. He was mostly there when Francis had pulled him out, and he didn’t last long, a low guttural moan emerging from deep inside as his world contracted, cracked, and crumbled away before he came, hard, his hips going up and up and up as he collapsed into Francis.

Francis laughed hoarsely.

“Hope you remember that next time you get any inclinations about interrupting me while I work.”

James hummed into Francis’ neck, kissing where that tendon bulged every time Francis was about the finish. “I will.” He nipped at his jaw. “I most certainly will.”

\- - -

Weeks melted into months. Francis continued to surprise James in small ways, their chipped and battered lives slowly fitting together. Francis made passing references to “us” and “we.” James emptied the trunk, tossing everything but the spyglass and little figurine. It was a seal, they decided, putting it next to the photographs. Francis murmuring how much he loved James’ stories after he recounted the whole sordid tale of John Barrow’s son, not a trace of mockery in his voice.

One evening, Francis slid his journals over to James without meeting his eye.

“Francis. I don’t know what to say.” James rested his head against Francis’ middle, turning the pages.

“It’s awful isn’t it. Maudlin, overwrought, entirely too many adverbs-”

“No.” James sat up, smiling, his fingers pressed to his mouth. “It’s possibly the best piece of writing I have ever read. But you must remember I am a pretty face and nothing more.”

Francis was quiet, his mouth pulled into a line, his eyes deep and shadowed.

“You do me a kindness, James.” Francis brushed his cheek. “And you are far more than a pretty face.” He smiled to himself. “You also have a very pretty cock.”

“There it is, you vulgar peasant.”

\- - -

“Do you miss the rest of the world?” Francis asked. They were out in the garden at sunset.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we cannot live our lives in the open, the way we are.”

“The rest of the world, they would gawk and paw and question. They’ve no ability to comprehend what we have done, what was required,” James said. 

“I miss it a bit sometimes. I miss before. But there was no you here, before.”

“Have you?” James ran the back of his fingers along the inside part of Francis’ arm. James would have known anyway if Francis had, as he frequently slept shirtless as the heat of the summer stretched into early fall. 

“No.” Francis put his head in James’ lap, giving him that slightly boyish smile. “Nightmares?”

“Just the strangest dream.” He brushed back Francis’ hair from his face. “I was being chased. Again. You know how it can be, the dream skipped about. First the boat, then the hunting blind, then the land. I kept dropping things. My hat. My boots. My spyglass.”

“ _My_ spyglass.”

“Your spyglass.” James smiled slightly. “My epaulets fell off, my buttons, my hair, my clothing falling to bits. And my skin, it was all blackened blotches.

“The dream moved again, and the Creature had me backed up against the hull of Erebus. I could smell it, like rank foul meat. It was awful. So I sat down, and I said, ‘I have nothing else to give you. I am done.’”

He paused. The leaves were starting to change. A bird alighted on the birdbath, one of Francis’ many additions. Living and dying and rot and renewal, it was all around them. Francis took his hand, that small gesture that always surprised him with its gentleness. His thumb circled each of James’ knuckles.

“And then what?” he asked, looking up, his eyes hopeful.

“It roared, turned and walked away. Then for some reason, I was here in the garden, surrounded by roses. And then I woke up.” He sighed. “So strange, Francis. That boulder of guilt I carry around with me, it feels so much smaller. Still there. I suspect I will carry it with me the rest of my days.”

“A boulder. I always thought of mine as a cannonball.”

“Do you wish to retire for the evening?” James asked.

“No. Let us stay a while longer.” He closed his eyes. “Are you happy here, James? In our home.”

_Our home._ Francis had laid him low yet again. He blinked back tears, looking back at the house, big and dusty and entirely too much work for Francis alone. How had he managed before James? And Francis, dear Francis, whom he’d hated and then pitied, then trusted, slowly and surely, then loved.

“Our home.” The words sounded funny as he said them. James smiled. He’d been all over and back again, never finding somewhere of his own, not when he was a child, and certainly not when he was trying to bend the world to his will, looking, always looking, shortsightedly thinking of a home as merely a location.

Was Francis not also home? The way he fussed over his garden, the wrinkle in his brow when he was reading, his heavy form resting on James first thing in the morning, snatches of an old drinking song drifting out of the bathroom as he shaved. 

“Yes, Francis. I am.”

Home. He was home.


End file.
